ink marks on a blank page Mon 5th Jan 2010

Life could be regarded, if looking for a metaphor, somewhat like peering into binoculars. As a young person one looks into the distance, correcting the distortions so that all becomes clearer. The older you get then we look through the glasses around the other way so that what we see fades into the distance and what future there is gets smaller and smaller.
Some years ago a professional photographer I knew asked me to do some media for his exhibition, when he asked how much I said pay for the materials, I'll do it for nothing.Duly done he wanted to re-pay me somehow so he sugested that he do some really good portraits of Hortense and I. He asked to use some props so I suggested we gathered about us a collection of 'things' that meant something of import to the both of us.There was a toy double decker London bus, son's 40yr old Teddy bear, a stool that my Mother made,the three wheel trike that two generations learnt to pedal, a large cast bronze hare that I bought in the UK and hid for her '03 Christmas, an A4 picture of son and daughter (he at 14,she 7) in the trike carrier tray there were several objet d'art and meaning,for the print we were shot sitting on one of the chesterfields beneath a large painting of the four seasons.
Nothing about those objects was planned before hand. Andy had simply arrived, we had dinner , he got his stuff together then we threw the bits and pieces about. When the final print was chosen and it was framed there it sat on a table in the main bedroom as these things do. This picture taking etc took place about 7yrs ago, Andy's exhibition was a success , life moved on. During 2008 at a median point in my life I was sitting on the bed gazing at the picture ,picked it up and had a shock of insight into exactly what the picture was.
The eclectic collection of memorabilia there had defined us as people,each of the objects were datum points in our life together as a family and as individuals. Like most 'things' that we all gather about our collective selves ,each treasured object can tell a story, is a reference point to some part of life.We can look at that 'thing' dispassionately most days ,but then one day we see 'it' for what it was or represents. Families all have photo albums which at various times get dragged out and pored over. Gee was my hair that bad, how did I ever think I looked good in THAT ! We all do it at some time, or during special times as a family ritual. Somehow though the actual objects that made our lives get overlooked , the reasons that they were important still are there, but not re-inforced by touch or reminiscence.

When we lived on the farm one of our near neighbours had a very large farm house/vineyard about a kilometre away. This place was hidden from the road in a fold of hills and had a long sweeping driveway. He and his wife had enlarged and beautified the original house to where it was a showpiece full of priceless antiques from both sides of their families. Both families had been settlers from the first wave (1800's) of migrant vessels to Australia . Over the years they had kept all the wonderful artifacts that had been handed down through the generations, had gone back to England many times to bring back their respective pasts from what was left there. They were both lovely gregarious folk often stopping by to chat as they went on evening walks past. One Friday they left to go to a function in the city and stay there that night.Sometime during the night a person broke into their house and set it alight,whether by design or just plain stupidity we will never know,no-one saw or even noticed the house going up in flames. Nothing of any value either intrinsic or monetary was able to be salvaged apart from a sewing machine of her Great-great grandmother's. Over time the house was re-built and they moved back in. Although he started walking back up and past our house he never stopped in , she stopped walking altogether. On the odd occasion when I was able to actually speak to him he only ever said hello and kept on walking. Perhaps he blamed us for not seeing the fire and alerting the local fire truck, as the years rolled on we saw them at a mutual friends functions as she was their daughters God-Mother. Gradually they started speaking again and it became clear that they did not blame us at all, but very obvious there were other reasons why they had become almost recluses. It was clear that they felt, he more strongly, that they had lost their collective families identity. Lost the history of generations that their son/daughters would never have to show their children who they were and who they have been. He eventually told me only last year that months after the fire he woke up one morning not knowing who he was, that the massive wealth that he had amassed and the business that his Grandfather had started was no longer his, was lost to him.

That is what matters in lives, the import of existence, objects that in themselves might not have much monetary value but are links to points in life, each little piece has its own story to tell and is a focal point in the history of life.I mourn a father that I never knew as he died in 1942 when I was but 3 months old. I go to his grave as often as I can because there lies the man who was what I am, that is my reference to where I came from.

Yes Hortense you have such a like connection ,all the cousins who you couldn't remember that we love and visit each time we go back to England. The house we were able to walk through in Wales where your father was born. Your lovely aged Aunt who tells us stories of what you did when you visited her as a little baby,then as a young child, your grandmother's sewing basket that you still have . I loved meeting Doris and Stan who were your parents cycling club pals for many years. They used to have us stay at their house in Putney each time we went over. The first time we ever caught a London bus it was from the stop not 50yards from their house.Then the shock of it when years later just after they sold, we looked at that toy London bus and realised the destination stencilled on the front was of that very same bus we used to catch( the No.14) so often in front of Doris's house. See, , when we have things like that to remind us who we are, we will never be lost or alone.